


The Healer

by Virodeil



Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [32]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Age Regression/De-Aging, Bandits & Outlaws, Forests, Gen, Healing, Injury Recovery, Mama laufey, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Post-Infancy Breastfeeding, Nudity, POV Loki (Marvel), Pre-Thor (2011), Surprises, Unexpected Family Relations, Vanaheimr | Vanaheim, unexpected help
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29215488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Loki got injured in one of his wanderings. A kindly stranger cares for him and heals him. But what is the payment? And who will pay it?
Relationships: Laufey (Marvel) & Loki (Marvel)
Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1089204
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	The Healer

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, Loki is about a millennium old; an adolescent ready for some serious responsibility to the Asgardians, but still very much a child to the Jötnar.

The ambush of the bandits took so little time, with so devastating a result.

The bandits were not only numerous, but also skilled with weapons _and_ seiðr _and_ tactics. They ambushed their lone victim deep at night on a deserted forested path far from civilisation of any kind, when the victim was weary from his travails all round the countryside of Vanaheim. And they did not only manage to down their victim, but also took _every item_ from the said victim’s person, from clothes to the contents of the storage dimension attached to the hapless traveller, although _thankfully_ they did not do _more_ than that.

So now the victim lies naked, beaten and broken alone on a secluded path flanked by huge trees and canopied by lush foliage, with neither recourse nor resources to call for.

And the victim is _Loki Odinson_ of Asgard.

Who is, in addition to all his injuries and losses, feeling positively _humiliated_ that he has been defeated by seiðr and plan and guile, which he thought he mastered.

And then, to worsen the situation even further, after an interminable amount of time lying weak and vulnerable on the forest’f floor, he hears occasional whistling that apparently seeks to mimic the singing of the nocturnal birds perched high and deep in the trees, and the whistler is _getting closer_ to where he lies, although he cannot hear any footfalls that would usually accompany such approach.

But then again, he _did not_ detect the ambush, did he? This forest holds not a few quirks, it seems, and he may be about to suffer from those quirks for the second time in a night.

` _If only I listened to the villagers when they claimed that this forest is odd._ `

But he _did not_ listen, thinking that the oddities were only superstitions and rumours of ignorant peasants.

And now, he can only brace himself, pooling the pitiful amount of seiðr he is left with to _at least_ cloak him from naked sight and scrying.

The newcomer is upon him before he can complete the Working, however.

They let out a dismayed gasp. He starts, caught off guard. And, just so, the threads of his far weakened seiðr unravel.

And he is left _weaker_ than before, as the seiðr disperses into thin air, not back into himself.

“Who did this to you, child?” the newcomer demands, sounding shocked and worried and incensed _for him_.

_Too_ shocked and worried and incensed for a total stranger, in Loki’s opinion, but he would welcome kindness unlooked-for, even from a madman like this one.

And if the mad stranger would act kinder to a child than to a young man that he is in truth, he will not correct them. So, instead, he tells them about the bandits ambushing him and robbing him of all his possessions, even as the stranger picks him up carefully and carries him sidewise, away farther into the forest.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks at the end of his narration, as the stranger yet walks in a steady pace along the meandering forest paths, deeper and deeper into the trees.

“To a good place to build a shelter,” is what the stranger says, after so long silent, just listening to his tale.

“Are you not going to bring me to a healer?” he inquires, his heart falling. Truth be told, his last use of seiðr took away what he should have used to help heal himself; and now, especially with the constant motions of the stranger, although the branches and twigs and leaves somehow never touch his unprotected skin, his body feels like one huge, sore, throbbing wound.

“I am a travelling healer, myself,” the stranger claims, calmly and quietly confident, inviting trust….

But Loki is an _un_ trusting creature by nature and also rather by nurture. So he withholds his judgement and, again, scrapes up the last dregs of his seiðr, this time to try to soothe his battered body.

The stranger sighs to the action, exasperatedly, oddly enough sounding like Father whenever Loki and Thor return from one of their adventures having left chaos and/or infamy in their wake, or, in their shared childhood, when they snooped into places their parents had warned against.

It makes him feel guilty by association.

But not enough _not_ to try his best to heal himself, at least somewhat.

Sadly, he has _again_ misjudged his decision, and the somewhat undirected, somewhat uncontrollable seiðr only manages to make his wounds – the ones that he has managed to reach, that is – throb even fiercer because of the oversaturation, _without_ speeding up his healing _at all_.

It manages to send him into unconsciousness, in fact, soon after, like the bandits _did not_ manage to do.

**O-O-O-O**

Loki wakes to a comfortable and somehow familiar sensation surrounding him, made up of a hodgepodge of senses, chiefly a seiðr-born… ward?… wrapped round him.

He feels lethargic, weak and achy, like the few times he was heavily injured and needed a few days of bed rest. But he also feels… unrestricted, and not in a physical sense at that, as he can actually feel _very little_ covering him up.

Something is missing from his incorporeal person. But it is something that, based on how he is feeling, he will not actually _miss_. He feels _free_ , like this, as if some tight seiðr-born binding had been lifted off of him.

It is a nice feeling, but strange for its newness and surprising discovery.

And, _even stranger_ , he _does not_ feel restricted, let alone trapped, cocooned tightly in this intricate ward, in _somebody else’s_ seiðr, which feels stronger and more mature than his is. He feels somehow _safe_ , in fact, in addition to the comfort and familiarity, although he is yet naked under the… blanket?… covering him, and does not even know where he is.

Still, judging by the random swaying of his bed and the soft noises of insects and trees and birds and a far-off stream round him, he guesses that he may yet be in the odd forest he was ambushed in, most likely high up a tree to prevent detection and unwanted visits by both animals and people.

His muzzy musing is cut off when his bed sways a little harder, the only indication that somebody is approaching him. Weak and lethargic as he is still, he can only look up helplessly when the individual comes into sight, looming over him but unthreateningly.

Under the soft, diffused light with unknown source that he sees by, the features of the kindly stranger are unclear, although he knows that they are the same person who carried him away from the site of his total humiliation, judging by the presence he can detect without effort.

But he _also_ feels some familiarity to them, now, which confuses him to the point of frozen speechlessness.

It is what he tells himself, in any case, as he does not try to turn away the cold, pebble-like something that is pressed against his lips. He is just too stumped by the puzzle to react negatively against the foreign thing.

He has no excuse to offer himself for his enjoyment, however, as the pebble – a shard of flavoured ice? – melts in his mouth and travels smoothly down his throat, giving him a strange sensation of coolness that is reminiscent of warmth. It somehow feels familiar, and heightens his familiarity with the stranger and the ward the stranger – it must have been the stranger – cocoons him with, and a part of him is slowly driven insane with worry and paranoia and confusion, _but he welcomes it, anyway_ , and lets the stranger feed him more and more and more of it.

He sincerely and yearningly rues the lack, in fact, when the strange pebbles are no longer offered to his lips.

But then, the stranger – it must be the stranger… right? – hums melodies that feel _equally familiar_ to him, not from their throat, and bypassing his ears _as well_.

He feels too relaxed to worry. And, anyway, he falls deeply asleep in the next moment, leaving all thoughts and emotions behind.

**O-O-O-O**

When he next wakes, Loki finds himself wrapped in not only the ward, but also _the stranger_.

A woman, it seems, judging by the contour of her front pressed against his own front. A sleeping woman, judging by the quiescent presence cocooning him in addition to the ward and her body.

Someone _far bigger_ than he is, however, as though he had shrunken into a child overnight.

And both of them are _naked_ under the shroud of a single blanket.

Still, it feels… _natural_ , somehow, and safe, and even more familiar than before, instead of intrusive, overly intimate, or simply bizarre.

And he feels _totally unburdened_ , as well, as if somebody had just alleviated him off a heavy load that he carried since a long time ago, not only untying him from the restrictions that he _had not known_ he had.

What did the stranger do to him? How did she know about the seiðr-born restrictions and burdens in the first place, when _he himself_ did not know? And where are they in truth? How long has he been here, sequestered away from Asgard? He had not meant to go exploring for long when he set out! What have his parents been thinking? Did they send out search parties yet? Or did they announce him missing already?

He stirs, and finds with incredulous surprise that _nothing_ hurts or feels lethargic, now.

He feels fresh and _totally healthy_ , in fact, come to think of it again.

How long has he _really_ been out?

However, despite the concern, he feels loathed to leave his cocoon, and not because of any sexual urge. He has not felt any urge to explore himself sexually all these centuries, anyway, although his peers have been experimenting here and there.

No, he is loathed to leave because this position is just… too cosy to change, _somehow_.

Even when the stranger _also_ stirs, waking up from her own slumber.

He finds himself _melting deeper into her presence_ , in fact, when she softly, slowly, relishingly caresses his hair and hums the same odd but familiar melodies. Slumber teases the edges of his mind, and he welcomes it gladly, ready to return to it, buoyed by the currents of the melodies.

Unfortunately, however, the stranger then stops her heavenly treatment and, chuckling, pats his head, recalling him back to reality.

“We need to talk, little one,” she murmurs, and there is _so much_ to unpack in the odd tone in her still-androgynous voice, let alone her words, although he can clearly sense the wistful regret in it.

“Such as why we are naked and I feel so small next to you?” he offers, in a flippant tone that he does not feel.

And now he finds that his voice is _definitely_ that of a child.

“I did not ask to be changed into a child, you know,” he continues, grumbling, but unable to _really_ be angry with her, considering how light and free he feels after she has healed him, not to mention how cosy and sleepy he is feeling.

“I did not change you,” she snorts. “I _returned_ you to your natural body.” Heat feels the second part of her statement, and Loki can feel the presence _still_ wrapped round him roiling under the surface.

“Do you not feel much lighter?” she continues, and he cannot deny her claim.

“Somebody – Voðen, most likely, for whatever reason – bound you to this form, as well,” she ploughs on, before he can ask about this very thing. “And they _also_ made it so that nobody could recognise you as _you_. I could not even recognise who you were when I came upon you; only a random child in a body too big for their age.”

“And who am I?” he prods, although his suddenly trepidatious heart shrieks to him not to do it and his mind wonders about her bizarre assertions.

The woman lets out a long sigh to that, sounding pained and as if bracing herself for something unpleasant. She shifts a little and lays her hand on his chest, then, and declares softly _but firmly_ , “Loptr Laufey-childe.”

And to this, _as well_ , Loki finds that he _cannot_ deny her, somehow.

The action and the name resonate deep in his mind, echoing a _memory_ from what feels like a very, very, very long time ago. It speaks of _core identity_ and belonging, soul-deep.

He sucks in a breath.

“Laufey-childe,” he croaks, his breath hitching. Now he is very, very, very glad that he is not looking right at the woman – _Laufey_?!

He _still_ has his eyes closed, in fact, and now wishes that he had fallen asleep before his insane rescuer could dump this on him.

It is not Loki _Odinson_ if he were not defiant, however. So he rallies the best that he can… which is not much, at this point, “Last time I checked, Laufey is a man and a frost giant.”

“And the last time I knew, Loptr Laufey-childe was yet a newborn, born half to term,” is the return, delivered in a similarly unsteady voice, as the woman removes her hand from his chest and gathers him close again.

He shudders, but stays silent this time. What is there to assert or refute further, anyway? He loathes looking like the fool, and saying anything further about this in any way would make him so.

But… but… _Laufey_ -childe!

His heart twists and squeezes horribly, agonisingly. ` _Why did they never tell me? Would they ever tell me? Why did they take me away? I am the child of their greatest enemy! Thor even promised to kill all the frost giants when we were taken to the Casket, that time!_ `

“What was a disguised frost giant doing, skulking in an odd forest in Vanaheim?” He tries to distract himself from _that_ bit of knowledge that he cannot refute – not just _yet_ , maybe? – and the hurtful questions that follow after it.

Well, and _also_ from the _very, very, very familiar_ sounds of heartbeats and breathing that he is now acutely aware of.

And the woman _quips back_ , with more than a hint of sternness in it, so reminiscent of Frigga-Queen in her role as mother to two – _one_? – rambunctious… sons – well, son and _foster_ son, maybe, “What was a child pretending to be an adult doing so far away from safety, skulking alone in a forest they knew to be odd?”

“I was not pretending!” he blurts out, squawking, indignant.

“Do you not feel much lighter, now?” she challenges, again, while dragging him up from his comfortable spot to meet her glare. “Your _whole_ being was strained, trying to be what you were not for so long.”

He looks away and refuses to respond. The both of them know what the response would be, anyway.

But _still_ , “Why were you here?”

“Who raised you?” the woman returns, _in the same tone_.

Loki glares.

She smiles, albeit rather wanly.

The retort that has been building in his breast dies out, just so. Not because of the smile, specifically, but because of the eyes above it that look back at him with pain and wistful imagining.

_His own eyes_.

“Did you change your eyes to look like me?” he accuses, with a _yet-again_ wavering voice.

She raises an eyebrow. “Now, who comes first: the mother or the child?”

He flinches. ` _Laufey-childe,_ ` he remembers.

And he _nearly succeeded_ to forget that.

**O-O-O-O**

“What now?” Loki demands weakly as he _at long last_ manages to scramble free from… _the woman_ , after a _totally mortifying_ and _purportedly important_ session of _breastfeeding_ , following their futile interrogation of each other. He looks round, meanwhile, all but at her, noticing that they are indeed up a tree, given the boughs and branches that act as pillars and railings for the woven rope platform he and the woman are on, glimmering faintly under what looks like the afternoon sunlight filtering through the thick canopy of leaves.

“What would Loé like to do?” the woman hums contentedly, still lying half curled up under the blanket on the middle of the platform. She does not seek to retrieve him, but her presence remains a comfortable cocoon round him, soaking him unintrusively, just like raindrops drenching a traveller.

“What if I said I would like to return to Asgard?” he snorts, glaring at her from his position at her feet, still half covered by the blanket. “And for the last time, woman, I am _not_ Loé or Loptr. I am _Loki_.”

He jumps and yelps when something pinches the tip of his ear, _hard_ , without the accompanying physical gesture.

“If you will not _yet_ respect me as your mother, respect me as _a person_ , my brat,” the woman grumbles and glares, with a hint of hurt in her voice that makes him reflexively wince in guilt. “And for your information, _that name_ was already taken, by your _dead_ twin – your other half.”

He winces again.

“Well, I live for the two of us, then, with that name,” he says at length, unable to select a better comeback.

She rises to a sitting position and regards him piercingly, for that.

“You cannot live another’s life for them, _Loptr_ , twin or not,” she gravely presses him. “They might be reborn in your lifetime, or they might not. But regardless, they were they and you are you. Mourn for Loí, Loé, as Amma mourned for you both.”

And, judging by the grief now saturating her presence and the tears shining in her eyes, she mourns the dead one _still_.

Loki looks away, _again_. “I never know… them. I never knew you, either,” he says quietly, much more subdued than moments ago. “Please do not press me. And,” he braces himself, “I need to return to Asgard to say farewell. I was… raised well,” a prince, if a disfavoured one by most of the warriors that he grew up surrounded by, “and those I call my family might have been searching for me,” although they have been withholding a very, very, very big lie from him, one that he _also_ needs to confront _as soon as possible_.

He steals a glance at her, and ducks his head, chagrined, when he catches her knowing look.

“You wish to confront the ones who raised you,” she states. “ _Good_. I wish for the same thing.”

He cringes.

Neither his parents nor his brother – his _so-called_ parents and brother – are in his favour, at present, but the ferocity in this woman’s – this _frost giant’s_ – voice makes him worry about them, anyway, regardless of how hurt and mad he is with them right now.

“You are a healer, are you not?” he tries to placate her in advance. “Did you not take an oath not to hurt people unduely?”

She snorts with palpable derision. “It would not be an _undue_ hurting,” she smirks bitterly, as she dresses herself and him with seiðr. “Amma missed Loé for a millennium. Those people will have to miss theirs for the same time. We can call it… reversed fostering… to broker peace between two realms.”

` _Payback,_ ` Loki translates, wincing again, and dodges too late from the swooping arms of the scary woman who claimed to be _his birth mother_.

Then he realises. ` _Oh, Norns, it is **Laufey** , and I am bringing… her… to **Asgard** … to **take Thor away**!_`


End file.
